he read them first, that he was back in a Russian village, listening to the professional tale-teller, surrounded by his group of infatuated listeners, while he had only to lift his eyes to see “the wide sweep of the level corn-land, the gloom of the interminable forest, the gleam of the slowly winding river.” The Slav fairy-tales have a transparent simplicity, a straightforwardness of statement which give them a special charm, and it appears that in the original they are told with a lightness and brightness which are very fascinat in g. This, however, must depend in large measure on the skill and art of the teller. The Russian folk-lorists have doubtless been fortunate in the individuals from whom they originally heard the fairy-tales, but much must also be due to the graceful simplicity of their own style. A man who cannot use his own language with delicacy is able to make the most charming story in the world seem dull, and much depends on the art of the reporter.
It has been observed by those who have studied the fairy-tales of Russia that they deal with the doings of a class of supernatural beings quite distinct from those which people the folk-tales of Western and Central Europe. Fifty years ago a charming scholar, who was to Russia almost what Perrault was to France, A. N. Afanasieff, collected in many volumes the popular legends of his country, and displayed to the world the extraordinary wealth of Russian folk-lore. Afanasieff, who lived in Moscow, had wandered over the length and breadth of his native land, collecting these stories, much as Asbjornsen and Moe were doing about the same time in Norway. Ralston, who introduced the Russian fairy-stories to English readers, was a friend of Afanasieff and of my own, and he cultivated the art of telling stories in the manner of a Little Russian village schoolmaster, as he had been taught by Afanasieff. It was a wonderful experience to hear Ralston, who was the tallest of mortal men, and thin to boot, with a very long waving beard,
